The Case of the Swiss Treaty
by Rein Elanor
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler in Switzerland. There's friendship, drama, injury, the attempt to be clever, and a bit of lust. It's full of thrills, chills, and lots of 'larfs'.


The Adventure of the Swiss Treaty Rein Elanor

Disclaimer: None of the characters mentioned in the following piece of delusional fiction belong to me. I may pretend to own Holmes in the depths of the night, but in al honesty, all I own is a rather overactive imagination. And sometimes I think _that_ owns _me_. So, I must say thank you to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for creating the brilliant man (even if he didn't like him himself...), and the brilliant Irene Adler. Now I am officially babbling. Sorry about that, you guys.

Author's Note: Well, to explain this sorry piece of literature, I must say in my own defense that I adore Holmes and I think that if he _were_ to get together with a person, it would have been Irene Adler, simply because...well, I like them and hey! She's the woman, right? If you disagree, that's ok, of course, and all I ask is that you leave off reading at once, because they _do_ get together. Also, I must warn people now that I plan to have a rather intimate scene between them, and if that makes you in any way uncomfortable, I should advise you to not read this. It's rated R for a reason. But before you yell at me for using Holmes in this err... _disrespectful_ manner (and I do feel a bit ashamed)...read the scene. It's really not that bad.

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The Adventure of the Swiss Treaty Rein Elanor

This story is told from Irene Adler's point of view. I was going to switch off, but I decided not to. I'm very lazy.

A widow. That's what I was. A black-clad, sniffling, hypocritical, widow. Only I wasn't really sniffling or wearing black. It was three years since Godfrey and I had been married, and one since the dear man had kicked the bucket, as we say in New Jersey.

But I was a long way from home now. I was touring Europe again, singing, plying the boards, selling my voice and appearance to eager audiences. Godfrey's death had left me in a dangerous situation. The King of Bohemia was married to his Queen, and I still had the incriminating picture, but I needed capital. I was obliged to sing for my supper once again. And I have to admit, I loved it.

I was touring Bern in early May 1891, and spending much of my free time in the hotel Fride's dining room. I was sitting there one evening, alone, as per usual, when I saw a tall man enter the room. Having nothing more worthwhile with which to occupy my mind, I watched him.

As he walked into the room, he had glanced around, his sharp grey eyes taking in every diner. As his eyes passed over me, his eyebrows raised just a bit, and I saw some unnameable emotion pass over his face. He continued on with his observation of the room and its occupants.

He had a pleasant face, I decided, or he would have, if he didn't happen to be sporting a ridiculous mustache. I frowned at him. His hair and mustache were ginger, and they didn't match his grey eyes and tanned complexion at all. Furthermore, the man was obviously nervous, and a bit paranoid.

I realized that his walk, long-legged and agile, was familiar to me as he made his way through the room and passed my table. That's when it hit me. What the hell was Sherlock Holmes wearing a disguise like that for in Switzerland?

As he was walking by my table, I grabbed his arm. He was wearing a fine jacket of silk, but I could feel the thinness of his limb through it. He head swivelled about to gape at me, his mouth opening under the foolish mustache.

"Mr. Hol-" I began quietly.

"Hendrick. Seamus Hendrick," he interrupted me fiercely, his voice as low as mine had been.

I raised my eyebrows. "As you wish, Mr.... Hendrick. Please," I continued. "Have a seat." I was still gripping his arm. He had no choice but to comply, unless he wanted to draw attention to himself. He sat stiffly.

"Mrs. Norton," he said, once he had seated himself, inclining his head towards me. "I see that you have resumed your singing career."

I smiled at him. Once again, I saw some unreadable expression cross his thin face. Still smiling, I said, "Actually, I'm back to Miss Adler now. Godfrey caught a severe chest cold about a year ago from which he never recovered. That's actually why I'm on the stage again."

He nodded, a bit stiffly. He obviously wasn't comfortable hearing the confessions I had made. I raised my eyebrows at him.

"And what brings you to Bern?" I asked him good-naturedly. "Are you up to anything big?"

He was looking definitely uncomfortable now, and glancing about the room nervously. I frowned at him. "Well?" I asked, and perhaps I sounded a bit impatient. "Are you here for business or pleasure, my dear man?"

"Can we talk privately?" he asked, glancing about himself nervously.

I was intrigued. What would cause the great Sherlock Holmes to contract acute paranoia?

"Certainly, my dear man," I said warmly. "I've got nothing going right now. Shall we adjourn ourselves to the splendor of the great outdoors?"

He stood up, a serious expression on his mustached face. "Indeed." He pulled my chair out for me and held out an arm. I took it, and we exited the dining room. There were a few turned heads as we left, and this served to make Holmes more uncomfortable. When we reached the Grand Foyer, I attempted to walk him in the direction of the doors that lead outside, but Holmes steered me in the direction of the guest's suites.

"Where are you headed?" I asked him playfully. "You'd think that a man like you would be able to find the doors that lead outside."

"I know perfectly well where they are. I just wanted to look at your rooms." He looked at me cooly.

"Ah. I see," I said. Obviously the man wanted to speak in _private_. Or else he was more of a pervert than I had taken him for.

I showed him to my room, and looking up and down the hall, I let him inside. He stepped through the door, looking about himself in apparent interest. I closed and locked the door behind us. He turned and his eyes searched my face. "Have you any reason to suspect that you would have people listening to what goes on in these rooms?" he asked seriously, his long fingers twitching his coat lapels nervously.

"No, there is no one listening, Mr. Holmes," I answered him. His twitchy fingers were getting annoying, and I grabbed his hands in my own. A look of surprise crossed his face, and then his expression went blank. Just as though he had turned off a light.

"I ask you again, why are you here?" I was observing him closely. "And why are you wearing that ridiculous mustache and wig?"

He hesitated for a moment, then said, "I must ask you to keep what I tell you to yourself. It is of the upmost importance that I should be believed dead." He looked at me, measuring me cooly with those grey eyes. "Can I trust you, Miss Adler?"

"Call me Irene. And of course you can trust me, Holmes. We may not have always played for the same side, but we have always had mutual respect, I think."

He gave me what had to be the first genuine smile I'd seen on him. It changed his face quite a bit. I felt a sudden surge of affection for the man.

"Now, tell me why you must be considered dead, from whom you are running, and where your sidekick Watson is right now," I demanded, sitting him down on a chair. Despite his 'iron constitution', Holmes did appear a bit shaky. I sat down opposite him and settled in for a story.

"You have heard of Professor James Moriarty?" he asked.

I nodded. "None too good things, in whispers backstage," I replied, shuddering at the memory of some of the rumors to which I had been privy.

He nodded back at me. "Then you will be pleased to learn that he is dead. He fell to his death off into the abyss of the Reichenbach Falls."

There was a pause. "And how did he happen to have this unfortunate . . . accident?" I asked, although I thought I already knew the answer.

Holmes confirmed my suspicions with a rather feral grin. "He and I tumbled off the edge together after a long battle."

I frowned and leaned towards him. "But how is that you are still alive?"

He got a distant look in his eyes. "I found myself on a ledge, with bruised ribs and sore all over, but otherwise unharmed. However, it would simply not do to have my continued existence known to certain members of Moriarty's gang who are still at large."

I nodded slowly, looking at him carefully. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"No, I have not. And I don't intend to," he told me firmly, his eyes flashing. "Even Watson must believe that I am dead. I cannot let my presence be known."

A sudden thought occurred to me. "When did this happen?" I asked him.

Once again, his face went blank. "Three days? Four days ago?" he guessed. "I cannot say for certain."

"Have you eaten since then?"

He looked at me suspiciously. "No."

I stared at him. "You idiot man!" I cried. "You're probably in shock!"

He glared at me resentfully. "I am fine," he scoffed, rising to his feet. "Now that we have discussed this, and you have promised not to spread my story about, I shall be going. I would like to get out of Switzerland as soon as possible." He started for the door.

I grabbed his arm, for the second time that evening.

"You aren't going anywhere until you've eaten something and I make sure that you are not going to die, even now that you've managed your way from the Falls."

He shook me off. "I am sorry to disappoint you, Miss Adler-"

"Irene."

"Right. Sorry to disappoint you, Irene, but I really must be going." He started for the door again, and I waited for him to realize that the door wouldn't open without my key. He turned. Our eyes locked, and he said, as though he were very weary of playing a foolish game, "Let me out."

"I'm afraid I will not be able to do that," I told him, tucking the key into a 'safe place'. His face flushed, whether it was in anger or embarrassment I cannot say. (My safe place is always in my bosom.) Probably it was a combination of both.

"You know that I could incapacitate you very easily and take the key by force?" he asked calmly. You had to hand it to the man. He knew how to get what he wanted, even if it meant threatening a lady. But it wouldn't work on me.

"So you could, Mr. Holmes," I smiled at him. "However, were you to do so, I should soon recover, and then I would run and tell the newspapers the Sherlock Holmes is indeed alive. Do you doubt my sincerity, Mr. Holmes?" I asked, smiling very broadly at him.

His face twisted wryly. "I have no doubts where your determination is concerned, Miss . . . Irene. What do you want?"

"It's very simple. I want you to eat something in my presence, and I want to make certain that you have no serious injuries. I am going to ring for in-suite service, and-"

He had a rather panicked look on his face. "I will not be seen here. I cannot cause your honor to be-"

I laughed. "Please, Mr. Holmes," I said. "My honor? Do you happen to recall a certain incident involving a royal Bohemian? Your presence in my rooms will not besmirch my honor, it will only serve to further my reputation."

He was blushing! I smiled to myself. "Anyway, I shall call for food to be sent up here, and I shall make sure you have no injuries."

I rang the bell, and soon there came a knock on the door. Holmes looked around nervously, as though searching for a place to hide.

"If it bothers you that much, get behind the dressing screen," I told him quietly. He did so, and I answered the door, rolling my eyes.

I placed a large food order, and then closed the door once again and turned back to my rooms. "Do you wish to stay hidden until they come back with the cart?" I asked Holmes.

"I think it would be better so," he answered primly. I laughed outright at this, and checked my appearance in the glass before the food arrived.

Only when that has happened, and I had closed and locked the door, taking the cart laden with food inside the room, would Sherlock Holmes come from behind the screen.

I was laying out the food- a dish of bacon, a roast chicken, a plate of potatoes in a creamy sauce, and much more, and Holmes was just standing before the table.

"Well," I said, rather impatiently. "Are you going to eat?"

There was an odd expression on his face. I felt a rush of concern. "You're not going to puke, are you?" I asked (always the perfect lady, that's me).

He shook his head. The ginger hair looked very silly on him, I thought, not for the first time. He actually looked a bit...nervous.

"Well then? What's wrong? Does the sight of chicken drive you to madness? Are you going to turn into a vampire and drink my blood? What is wrong?"

He looked at me quizzically. "I cannot pay you for this," he admitted awkwardly.

I stared at him. Did he honestly think I would make him pay me? "For a thinking machine, you sure do need to learn some things about the world, my dear man," I said, pushing his tall frame into a seat. "I wouldn't take money from you if you had it. So shut up and eat some food."

Some emotion flickered across his face, but it was gone as soon as it came. "Thank you," he murmured.

"Think nothing of it. Until I ask you for a favor, that is," I said. "And rest assured, Mr. Holmes- I will ask you for a favor at some point."

He smiled again, and this time he laughed. I went over the piano I had requested in my rooms and practiced my parts in my most recent performances while he was eating. I had no wish to stare at him while he gorged himself after three day's fast, and I was sure it would have been awkward for both of us anyway.

When he was finished, he came over to the piano and stood behind me. "You sing very well," he stated.

I turned and smiled at him. I always relished honest compliments from accomplished musicians. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," I said.

He smiled back. "And thank you for the meal, even if it was accepted-"

"Under duress?" I suggested.

He looked amused. "I suppose that fits. Could you let me out now? I believe I have fulfilled your requests."

I raised my eyebrows. "Why, how unlike you to forget something, Mr. Holmes," I said in mock-surprise. "There was another condition set for your departing, and you have not been examined for injuries." I was craning my neck to look up at him, as he was standing tall before me. I didn't like this, so I stood up as well.

He stiffened. "I cannot allow you to call a doctor, Irene," he said firmly. "The questions he would ask would possibly lead to the discovery of my presence here. I cannot be found alive." He was looking at me in a rather commanding fashion.

"I'm not going to call a doctor, Mr. Holmes, I told him. "I have been many things in my life, and among them is included a nurse. I can tell for myself whether you are fit to be vertical, and I can treat you accordingly.

"Please take off your shirt first, Sherlock."

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Sherlock Holmes paled. "You? No, I don't think so, Miss Adler; I am not in the habit of simply removing-"

"If we can't do this nicely, Holmes, it'll be the hard way. I can be nice in my examination, or I can be . . . rough."

His eyes glinted. "I assure you that I can handle anything you might care to do to me," he said condescendingly.

I narrowed my eyes and advanced on him. He tried to stand firm, but as I reached him, I pulled off the ridiculous mustache and wig. He shouted at the sting of thee mustache ripping off his face and backed up. He continued backing up away from me until I had him against the wall. Then he stared at me cooly.

"I am an expert at baritsu, an ancient form of self-defence," he drawled. "I doubt you would present much of a challenge, Miss Adler."

"Oh? Is that so, Mr. Holmes?" I purred, pushing my face close to his.

The Great Detective was looking a bit disconcerted, for what had to be the first time ever. "Y-yes," he muttered.

"And Mr. Holmes?" I asked gently, cupping his face in my hands. He could only stare at me, a strange fire alight in his grey eyes. "Call me Irene," I breathed, before pressing my lips to his.

I moved closer to him until I was pressed up against him in full-body contact. For the first few seconds, he simply stood against the wall, as though stunned. I ran my fingers through his hair and down his face.

A shiver ran through him, and then he began kissing me back, tentatively at first, then with increasing passion. His hands went to my waist and pulled me closer to him. "Irene," he breathed.

I bit his lip gently and ground my hips against his erection. He moaned into my mouth. His hands were now moving across my back, onto my shoulders, down my arms, and across my stomach. He moved his hands across my face and I pressed into him harder. He groaned, and I could feel his heart pounding through his body.

He maneuvered me to the bed and lowered me onto it. Then he straddled me, lowering his head to lay a line of fiery kisses across my neck and shoulders. I arched into him and felt his erection against me again. I grabbed his face and pulled it to my own, kissing him passionately again. His hands traced lines across my face and down my shoulders. I moaned and ground my hips into his.

I flipped him over so I was on top and began pulling off his tie. I was opening his white linen shirt and laying a line of fire across his chest when he flipped me over as I had done to him.

His cool grey eyes were studying me seriously. My arms were pinned by his hands, and although I could still feel his erection, there was no trace of his earlier heavy breathing.

"I know you started by intending to be clever, Irene," he said quietly. "Trying to outmaneuver a 'thinking machine'," this was uttered with the barest trace of pain in his voice. I winced. "But do you want it now? I shall let you examine me if you wish, but I have no intention of making a fool out of myself or of you."

His shirt was hanging open, his thin and wiry-muscled chest showing a few purple bruises. His brown hair, which was usually kept in the neatest of order, was hanging over his face and sticking to his forehead. His hawk-like nose, the thin, serious mouth, and the faint smell that came off him- musky, not cologne, just his smell- all of these things suddenly seemed to be the epitome of perfection.

I sat up. He released my arms and got off me. There was a sadness in his eyes. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking at me.

I began tentatively. "I don't really consider you a 'thinking machine', Sherlock."

He quirked a wry eyebrow at me. I smiled and grabbed one of his slender hands. "I do, however, consider you to be a brave, intelligent, sensitive, deep-thinking man," I said. "And before you get too big-headed about that- I also think you're a right grumpy old bastard."

He grinned. "And you're conniving, capricious, and deadly- in both looks and intelligence.

"But you haven't answered my question," he continued seriously.

"I want to know you better," I said slowly. You were right- I thought I was starting this because I was trying to be clever and to outwit you. But I do want to know you. Not just as Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, but as a person. As a man. I want to know you, but I don't want to hurt you or make you feel as though you were being betrayed or used."

He nodded thoughtfully.

"And now," I said. "It's your turn. Do you want this?"

His face split into a wolfish grin. "You've always been the woman," he growled, moving closer to me on the bed. "As the doctor will tell you."

"Speaking of doctor," I chirped, hopping off the bed and pinning him to it. "Let's have a look at those bruises."

He laughed, and actually submitted to my examination. I had him stand on his feet, bare-chested, so I could inspect him for deeper damage than bruises.

"You have good muscle-structure," I commented, running my fingers across his shoulders and down his back. He was turned away from me, but he spun around when I moved my hands downwards on his back. He caught my hands and held them away from himself.

"You like it?" he murmured, his face close to mine.

I glared at him in mock-anger. "Release my hands. I am performing a medical examination."

"Really?" he purred. "I don't think Watson would quite approve of your . . . bedside manner." He was backing me up against the wall now, and I faked a knee to the groin to make him jump back. Then I spun him 'round again and began my poking and prodding once more.

"I should judge, from your muscle-structure and build, that you were a swimmer and a tree-climber in your youth, and that you still row a boat frequently. The development of the arms and upper chest and shoulders, coupled with your very thin frame and great height speak of as much." I turned him around to face me and began examining his ribs, watching his mouth twist in amusement.

"I see I am not the only detective here," he drawled.

"Apparently not," I answered. "I only hope that you are this physically fit in other- areas."

"I assure you, my dear Miss Adler, that I am in very good condition."

I handed him his shirt, grinning. He began putting it on. "Now where did you toss my disguise?" he wondered, peering around. He first spotted his tie and jacket on the floor (oddly enough, I didn't recall removing that particular article of clothing from him), and then he saw the hairy red bits of his disguise.

As he stuck them on, he asked, "What do you think of them, then?" I looked up into his face to see if he was joking. Unfortunately, he was not.

"They're bloody horrid, Holmes," I told him bluntly. "You look like a circus clown. Hardly inconspicuous. With your height and gait and that nose, the hair just draws attention to you."

He looked hurt. "I always managed to fool Watson," he said, with a hint of vanity in his voice.

"Well, darling, I am not Watson, and I'm telling you that you look ridiculous."

"This is the only disguise I have. It will get me to Munich, at least," he defended himself. It was then that I had a flash of inspiration.

"Have you any plans for after you leave Bern? Transportation, lodgings, food?" I asked him casually.

He darted a suspicious look at me. "No definite plans. Why?" he asked sharply.

"And do you play piano?" I continued, ignoring his question.

"I play violin extremely well," he said (as always, with perfect modesty), "and I can play piano, but not as well. Why?" he asked again, more sharply than the last time.

"Well...I happen to be in the market for a traveling piano player. It's a new position. I need a person who can play my part for me to practice with," I told him. He raised his eyebrows and glared down at me.

"I will not be your traveling pet dog," he said coldly.

"I don't want you to be!" I cried. "You would work for room and board, and meanwhile you would have the anonymity that comes from being a member of an entourage. I am always supposed to have men crowding around me," I said. How perfectly we display our modesty.

He was looking rather offended. "It's just my reputation, you ass!" I told him. "I'm a widow, remember? And," I continued suggestively. "My piano player would have to have an adjoining room so I could- practice- at night."

His face now looked thoughtful. "Where are you headed next, Miss Adler?"

Author's Note: This story is being posted as a one-shot, but if I get a boatload of reviews saying that more is wanted, I shall oblige. Now, before you yell at me about lewd behavior in Victorian England- think about it- Jack the Ripper killed prostitutes. So dirty things were out there. And Irene Adler was an American, and therefore not bound by the British rules of propriety (we can see evidence of this in her behavior with the Crown Prince of Bohemia, ha ha). If you think that Holmes is too repressed to ever go anything like _that_, I say, c'mon! He's had a severe shock! He's looked Death in the face! Of course he's a bit wild! And if you need further argument, see Nicholas Meyer's wonderful book The Canary Trainer. And admit it, at least the story had a plot and a meaning, right? Of course right!


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